Playground - Aug 11 2020

 

Playground

Aug 11 2020

There are ruts under the swings

where the grass is down to dirt.

From year after year

of little legs 

with scraped knees and off-brand sneakers

reaching for solid ground,

bums teetering on edge

toes feeling for earth.

The steel frame is rusted

its feet insecure,

lifting a couple of inches

with each rise and return.

In time with the creak of the chains

and the breathless grunts of the child,

who has fully extended himself

in a determined quest for height.

But today, a swing twists in the wind

its wet frame drips,

chains hang heavily

and the ruts are up to the brim.

When even on a good day

the kids are all inside,

supervised

and suitably guided.

When the equipment sits abandoned

because kids no longer play,

and over-cautious mothers

have all agreed that they're unsafe.

An old school swing set, wobbly and poorly maintained,

built on hard rough ground

and suspiciously covered in rust,

the chunky steel chains

that could easily strangle a child.

So instead I've taken my place

on the narrow slab seat,

rocking idly back and forth

soaked through with rain.

Braving the elements

on a cool wet afternoon,

trying to recall how it felt

to lose touch with the ground,

the terrifying thrill

of unfettered free-fall

and unprotected height.

To recapture my inner child

who long ago fell to time.

Back when small boisterous children

pushed and shoved and whined

impatiently waiting in line,

when these swings were bright and shiny

and a lost child thrived.